Jetstream Of Jouissance: Blisteringly Blissful Refueling
by Quillon42
Summary: Justly some apologies in advance as this is not for the film of Top Gun but rather the NES Game (there is no category under Games for Top Gun on this website unfortunately). The F-14 Tomcat needs refueling of her tank and of her heart and such here, and a certain hosebearing harrier has just what she needs.


(NB: The weird names mentioned near to the end of the story (regarding the "song") are just certain brands of fighter jets and all; you should be able to figure out from the context the reference that is going on and such here).

JETSTREAM OF JOUISSANCE: A BLISTERINGLY BLISSFUL REFUELING FOR THE F-14

By Quillon42

Yonder in the sterile lapis lazuli sky was the sleek Tomcat of nickel tint, she screaming through the ether and leaving in her momentous wake that signature trail in the air. Other fighters called her "Banana Behind" because (as can be shown on the cover of the first NES title of this franchise and such) the thrust output following her resembled that of a primate's favorite potassium snack. None in the squadron could match the dame of a drone, however, in terms of her fleetness and ferocity.

Now that same leaden lady was skimming over international waters so that she could target another aircraft carrier of the enemy. She hadn't hesitated to take down such seafaring structures before, just as she had eliminated landlocked military bases as well as docked space shuttles ready for launch. For certain, outfitted with her packs of forty Hounds, twenty Wolves, and ten Tigers, this femme of an F-14 was singlehandedly responsible for the thwarting of dread terrorism as well as the halting of progress regarding countless space exploration programs that could expand humanity's knowledge of the universe's outer reaches.

As such, the metal maiden's moral alignment (as was evident through the missions given her by her superiors) lay somewhere in the neutral classification.

Such concerns were irrelevant right now, regarding the jaunty jet's Zoroastrian designation regarding duality between evil and good, as all that mattered to the pretty plane was the fact that she was low on fuel once again, out in the expanse of warring waves and comfy clouds—none of which would offer any kind of pleasant landing should the ship suddenly go south once out of gas altogether.

Though the canny crate often had within herself some certain quantum of panic percolating, whenever her gauges read that she must be soon refilled, the soaring sister knew that there had always been someplane there for her, he who would fill that void of longing she had concerning the subsistence for her soul.

And then, almost as if on cue from the engine serving as the heart for this winged woman, he alighted on the scene anew.

It was him indeed now—that buff and bulky fuel craft whose aerial liaisons she had dreamed of nightly while cooped up in her hangar. He slid across the airspace once more, relieving the gunnery girl of all her airborne anxieties, not only of her shortage of sustenance but also ammunition in front which she endlessly had to dodge from hussy harriers ahead of her, bogeys from the back who were in fact vicious VTOL suitors stalking her and seeking to pump her up the plantain-pipe but good.

None of those flying nightmares milled in the munition madam's mind at present, as her lover was here for her when she needed him, as with so many other sorties.

She lifted herself, above the fray of so many dogfights and death otherwise, to give herself to him again. He in kind had reached out to her in his own inimitable manner, he opening up his bay doors and so extending out that palladium planehood which would fill her with the juice and jouissance her body and her spirit had so required.

They expanded out all they could to one another, she striving with her craft's very core, he straining with his erect fueling rod in turn. Winds most envious of concupiscent conveyances' unassailable bond had done all they could to buffet the pair of planes this way and that, but through and through she banked left while he listed west as well, then she barreled right with him leaning east in time with her then. It was almost as if the combat-accustomed couple were appropriating so many jetstreams into a form of their own personal foreplay.

Such garrison-inspiring gambols, however, were to be foregone as there would be nothing now to be tolerated now to course between this gentleplane and his princessna. With steely determination the fueling fool engorged himself with so much fluid as to harden all the more and extend out to finally connect with the temptress that was the other transport. Indeed the synthetic sir had achieved entry into his diesel damsel's most personal of ports, and now he was transmitting to her with the utmost of intimacy and efficiency that necessary nourishment which she had yearned for, which she had so craved since the last skirmish they met. Warm was the yellowish liquid as it flowed out from his ever potent polycarbonate member to the receiving terminal of the female fighteress whose most visceral needs he always fulfilled time and again.

Resourcefully the stratosphere-sailing rascal would always relay his and her song while the transmission was underway, and this time it was no different. To the military mistress's utter delight "Baby, It's Freezing Up Here" was now playing inside her cabin, courtesy of her longtime interloping lover. Of course, it was the original version by DeHavilland Martin-Baker, which has the unaltered lines such as "What's this in my tank," which never had intended any kind of negative vehicle-assault-y connotations at all. Lady Tomcat here (as well as this author) had despised the more recent, inferior version covered by Junkers Lockheed and Kawasaki Convair, in which the above phrase was met by the fairyass response of "It's your chassis and your choice"; like, really.

Many mellifluous moments then in passing, and the transaction most torrid between these far-flung flyers was thence completed. Ruefully the special spitfire that was the Tomcat acknowledged her ardent aviator by flapping her alluring ailerons most suggestively, rendering so rigid anew the now-retracting hose of her svelte and stealthy visitor.

Thus the two planes parted in those stark skies…but each vehicle had bid adieu charged with the intelligence that another interlude of blistering refueling would inevitably arrive, most likely the very next mission as well as the one following, and on.


End file.
